Sins
by vanillafluffy
Summary: A turning point in the relationship between El and Sands. Previously chronicled in "A Good Dog" and "Reawakening". Post-movie AU. Slash. Non-con/dub con.


The standard disclaimer still applies. Thanks to the usual suspects.

Warning: SLASH AHEAD. Non-consensual sex, guilt, angst, religious themes. Read at your own discretion.

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**Sins**

Sin weighed heavily upon him, a constant presence, and El Mariachi could not reconcile his conscience with his deeds. Telling himself that the acts he practiced with Sands hurt no one was futile, and the other man's constant sexual demands only served to add to his burden.

At first, their sexual couplings had been part of a bizarre power struggle...El suspected he had lost, otherwise, why was he regularly performing acts that imperiled his immortal soul? He had never found himself attracted to another man, and even now, attraction didn't describe what he felt for Sands. He didn't like the American, who was smug and self-centered and as dangerous as a rattlesnake. He didn't count the man as a friend, how could he have become involved with him as a lover? - if that was the right word for sleeping with someone you found a nuisance more often than not.

Had it been the occasional slip, El might have permitted himself some mild latitude, but in the weeks since his nightmares had tapered off, Sands had become voracious. There was pre-dawn sex, when Sands awoke hard and craved satisfaction, and siesta sex, when he was wide awake and apparently just as horny as if the pre-dawn sex hadn't happened. It didn't seem to be related to any form of affection that El recognized; he'd also caught Sands masturbating as if he hadn't been serviced in months.

The sight of the American unselfconsciously stroking himself stirred up conflicting feelings: El was simultaneously puzzled, insulted and aroused. The first two emotions he could recognize and deal with, but the third frightened him as much as anything could.

Was it because he had been too long alone since his family's death? He still loved Carolina and their daughter, still missed them, two emotions he would not feel for Sands if the man were to disappear suddenly from his life. He had been alone before, and never resorted to such acts. There had been that one time - but he'd been very young and drunk, and there'd been a girl involved - it was not the same thing at all! He'd long since been absolved for that event, but the recent episodes troubled him so deeply that he found himself unable to confess them. The thought of telling Father Santiago, who was his spiritual advisor and a good friend, that he had, that he had been - been with -

Thought of the words he would have to use made his breath catch in his throat. El could not remember such an interval with his soul so darkened. Not. Ever. He could make a short trip to another town, visit a church where the priest would be a stranger and so release his sins in that fashion, but even so, there would be more sins to follow. Sands had perpetual appetites and no conscience.

For what must have been the thousandth time, El asked himself why he still sheltered the American. When Sands first came to Guitartown in search of him, El Mariachi thought it was out of gratitude for having saved his life on the Day of the Dead, but Sands had shown him little thanks. Instead, the ex-agent had had what El could only look at as a severe break from reality. Sands wasn't just screaming from hallucinations in his sleep, he'd had them day and night for several weeks, nightmares for months afterward, and he'd been truly pitiful, following El through his daily routine like a lost child. If there was one thing that the Mexican found it difficult to refuse, it was someone in need of help - and Sands had been very needy.

Sometimes, in the midst of it all, they'd fought - there were days of fighting and fornicating, when whatever demons pursued Sands found outlet in violence and lust. At least El could convince himself that was part of Sands's derangement. It wasn't as if there was any seduction involved; he hadn't planned to sleep with the other man. Then, on a rainy April night, Sands had solicited him, pleading that he was sure the nightmares would leave him alone if he could only have some sexual comfort.

El could only blame himself. After months of tending Sands, who'd been prone to traumatic awakenings, he'd realized that night that Sands wasn't in their bed, and looked up to see him standing at the open bedroom window, fondling himself. Not wanting any wakeful citizens to observe the man's display, he'd persuaded him to return to bed, where for the first time, they were both at least nominally in their right minds during their transgressions.

Now, walking slowly across the Plaza of Guitar Makers toward the old mission, El found himself dreading the afternoon hours. There would be little, if any rest, he knew. Sands, the insatiable Sands, would be all over him as soon as he entered their residence.

He was not wrong. He had taken only a few strides inside the front door when he heard the American calling him from their bedroom. It was the usual request; El regarded the naked Sands with disgust. "Don't you ever think of anything else?" he demanded.

"Not lately." The ex-agent gave him a crooked grin. "Come on, El, help a guy out." Sands leaned close to the mariachi and gave him a look calculated to be flirtatious, but the attempts at boyish charm had worn thin long ago. El was beyond being wooed. He glared at the other man, who was playfully rubbing against him, unfastening his trousers and attempting to stimulate him.

"You don't need help from me, you need a cold shower," the musician said coldly, trying to act as if the other man's touch was having no effect.

"You're way too tense. It'll loosen you up." Sands stroked El's telltale bulge.

"I don't need to be loosened up, as you say. I'm tired of this incessant fornicating! Can't you understand that? Stop it!" He pushed the American away.

Sands staggered back against the bed and stood there for a moment as the mariachi pulled his pants back up. El slipped off his boots and turned to go to the kitchen for lunch, when Sands pounced on him. "You're not getting away that easy!" he laughed.

Out of patience, El flung the other man onto the bed. "Okay! Fine! I'll give you what you want!" Taller and heavier than the slender man, it wasn't difficult for El to pin Sands's arms behind his back while moving into place.

"Hey, wait a minute!" gasped Sands. "You forgot the-" His sentence ended with a scream as he was taken dry.

"Wait? Why should I wait? You wanted me a minute ago. And this morning - and twice yesterday and three times the day before. That's all you want from me, so here! Here it is! It's what you want!" The fury the Mexican had sustained for so many weeks burst forth in frenzied coupling. Beneath him, Sands bucked and struggled, but unchecked rage gave El merciless strength.

Hearing Sands plead for him to stop was more erotic than listening to him talk dirty. The half-sobs that punctuated his adversary's begging gave El intense satisfaction. What sent him into orgasm, though, was the thought that he could confess this, and it would finally be done with. He would be forgiven, at least by God, and if this act drove the crazy American out of his life, it would be worth any penance.

When El strolled out of the bedroom, Sands was still curled up on the bed, pale and shaken. El was past sympathy. It had been one thing in the days when the other man truly needed comforting, when he'd been plagued by nightmares and their union had brought him some measure of rest, but Sands had progressed since then. Meanwhile, he'd developed a habit of treating El as a convenient cock without any regard for his feelings or his conscience, much less his soul.

After the siesta hours, El returned to the Plaza of Guitar Makers without having laid eyes on Sands again. He was probably still sulking in bed. Hopefully, the experience had been unpleasant enough for him that he would leave El alone, or better yet, just leave. There was no reason for Sands to stay in Guitartown; even if he wanted to stay in Mexico, he didn't have to camp out in El's life.

Returning home in the early evening hours, El discovered the sheet stripped from the bed hanging up in the central courtyard of the old mission to dry. It bore a good-sized bloodstain, not-too-successfully erased. The mariachi smacked down a pang of guilt. Yes, he'd hurt the American. He'd meant to hurt him. That was the point, to teach him a lesson about how it felt to be used. Sands couldn't be hurt too badly if he had enough strength to do laundry.

Sands didn't appear to partake of the dinner El fixed. There was no sign of him while El sat in the courtyard playing his guitar as the moon rose, but the stained sheet had gone. The bed was neatly made when the musician went in hours later, the sheet still a bit damp, and empty. El's pistol was under the pillow; when he checked it, it was still loaded properly.

Sleeping when the man he'd raped was prowling around wasn't easy. Even with the door latched, El awoke frequently, aware that something was amiss. It seemed strange to be in bed alone, and he cursed the thought that he had grown accustomed to having Sands beside him.

For the next few days, Sands made himself scarce. He hadn't left the mission, El knew, although he was not to be found in any of the rooms they commonly used. His things were still in the room they had shared, his car still parked in the old stable. A few dishes were left in the sink for El to wash and put away, but aside from distant glimpses of the other man smoking cigarettes in the Plaza of Guitar Makers, there was no contact between them.

Finally, El steeled himself for what he had to do, and went in to see Father Santiago. Without meeting the other man's gaze, the mariachi told him everything. About how succoring the sick man had led to other things...how he'd gone along with it for so long, until he could no longer endure the shame of it. What he'd done to end it. It was over, he told his confessor earnestly. God forgive him.

As was their custom, they were sitting in back-to-back pews in the church, because El was uncomfortable in the confines of a regular confessional. Anyone who entered would see only two men conversing, although during these hours, few people ventured into the church.

Father Santiago knew the musician better than anyone else alive. His nod signified that he had been listening, not that he agreed. "God cannot forgive you for this, my son, until you have forgiven yourself. You must ask pardon from the man you wronged."

El looked at the priest with consternation. Saying such a thing to Sands was impossible. The American wouldn't view that as penance; it would be tantamount to inviting him back into bed. "Father, if I do that -"

"That is what you must do," said the priest firmly.

Returning to the mission, El actively looked for the other man, and had an unwelcome shock. The old black car hadn't moved since Sands's arrival months ago, but now that the mariachi needed to talk to him, the American had apparently left town. El went to the kitchen and tried to think of what to do next. Where might Sands have gone? How would he locate him? He'd have to have another talk with Father Santiago; hopefully he wouldn't have to pursue the American to the ends of the earth.

Trying to keep busy while he considered his dilemma, El found himself cooking food he had no desire for. Chicken sauteed with onions in a cast-iron skillet had a savory aroma, but El felt no appetite.

"Something smells good."

El whirled at the quiet words. Sands hovered in the doorway of the kitchen, poised for flight, but El remained motionless by the stove. He was relieved to see the other man, even though it meant potential humiliation. At least now, he could ask Sands what he must ask. "Dinner," he managed to say, just as if there hadn't been days of evasion, or confrontation. (El still shied away from the true name for what he had done.)

"You went and confessed, right? I saw you go into the church."

"Yes."

"Great, I thought so." The American's thin face lit up with something like his usual grin. "You're not gonna want to spoil that by beating me up, I hope." He produced a shopping bag from behind his back. "I got you a present!" Sands moseyed into the kitchen and set the bag on the table, then backed up a few paces, never taking his gaze from El.

Warily, the mariachi approached the bag, wondering what constituted Sands's idea of a gift for reconciliation after an incident like that.

Sheets. Two sets.

It was difficult to know whether to laugh or strangle the man, sometimes.

Sands talked non-stop during dinner, which made it easy for El to avoid the question he needed to ask. It wasn't surprising; the other man was naturally talkative, and after five days of isolation, he was bursting with pent-up chatter. At no time did he refer to what El had done to him.

Not until they were cleaning up the kitchen afterward was El able to bring up the touchy subject. "Sands, I need to ask you something."

Sands winced. "Ah, do you really -? I mean, come on, let's just - I'm not - oh, hell, _what_?"

"What I did to you was wrong. I am very sorry, and I," El took a deep breath. "I ask your forgiveness."

"Forget it," the American said abruptly. "I had it coming to me."

"No. No one deserves to have such a thing done to them. Not even you."

"Don't be so damn sure." Sands's good mood had vanished. "You have no idea what I deserve, mariachi. Forget it. Just forget it."

"I cannot forget it until I have been forgiven," El answered patiently. Father Santiago hadn't actually said that, only that he had to ask forgiveness, but El's conscience was trained to give more than lip service to the act of penance.

"Okay, fine. You're forgiven." Sands waved his hand in a rough blessing. "Have a nice day." His tone was bitter, belying his words.

Troubled, the mariachi looked at him. Sands's mouth was a thin line, and there was a scowl knotting his dark brows. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Can't you just drop it?" the American exploded. "It doesn't matter! Forget it!" His expression was a mixture of anger and agony, and El's guilt rose higher.

"If there is anything I can do..."

"You mean that?" Sands's tone turned sly.

El nodded slowly.

"Okay, then!" Sands showed his teeth, not pleasantly at all. "Tonight, it's your turn to take it like man."

He should've known better than to hand Sands an opportunity like this. "If that will help you find it in your heart to truly forgive me..."

Sands put a hand on El's shoulder, the first physical contact they'd had since that intense siesta hour. "Forgive you? You know I don't believe any of that crap. But yeah, I think it'll balance things nicely."

The mariachi had no illusions; this was going to be...bad. Sands was going to punish him for his actions - which was only fair, he reminded himself. But there was no denying the apprehension he felt as he crouched on the bed, awaiting his fate.

Sands was in no hurry. El was amazed when the other man held up a small bottle like a magician producing a bunny from his bonnet. "Lube," Sands said, smirking. "Water soluble, won't mess up the new sheets like that oil."

El didn't explain that making plans for those new sheets would be unwise. He didn't want to give the American an excuse to make this any worse than it already was. To his surprise, Sands took the time to prepare him. El's feelings at the gesture mingled gratitude and humiliation. He was ready, he thought, for Sands to savage him, to tear him apart, but instead, the other man eased into him slowly and smoothly.

Sands draped his left arm over El's shoulder in a rough hug. "Relax," he drawled. "This won't hurt a bit."

El was not reassured.

True to his word, Sands moved carefully. Instead of hammering away at his reluctant partner, he rocked his hips, each slow pump sending a wild surge of sensation through the kneeling man. Even El couldn't call what was happening to him painful, but he held himself ready for the other man's assault at any moment. He wanted to urge the American to get on with it, that the ordeal might be over with more quickly, but the words caught in his throat.

"Relax," Sands said again. His left arm came up; his forearm was snugged against El's windpipe, his hand gripping El's right shoulder. "You might as well relax. I plan to keep this up all night."

The mariachi experienced a rush of pure panic at the thought, but Sands's choke hold was efficient. "Did I ever mention I used to wrestle?" Sands asked him. Without waiting for an answer, he went on, "In high school and college, not like those gorillas in spandex on the tube." He squeezed El's neck briefly. Lights sparkled in the mariachi's vision. "I know all kinds of dirty tricks."

"I'll bet you do," said El before he could censor himself, but Sands just chuckled.

"So do you. My shoulders still hurt from the way you had me pinned." His slender body moved with controlled grace; El tried to ignore the flashes of pleasure the other man's motions caused. That would change. Sands would not be able to resist hurting him. All night? Surely not.

"You're being more forgiving than I expected."

Sands laughed outright. "Forgiving? Oh, hell, no!" He leaned forward, his voice intimate in El's ear. "You forget who you're dealing with. See, I know you. Señor Tough Guy, Mr. Macho Mariachi - I could screw you until my dick was worn to a stump, and you'd shrug it off. As soon as you stopped walking funny, you'd be fine. Uh-uh. Nope." He smooched the back of El's neck, raising a livid suck mark. "I said I was going to punish you, and I meant it."

"By screwing me all night long?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?" Sands sounded amused. "Not just that...I know the way to really punish you is...to make you love it."

Horrified, the mariachi tried in earnest to shake the American off, but Sands's arm was like iron against his throat. "You don't want to do that, El," said the other man conversationally. "I could break your neck. Then you'd die in a state of mortal sin. You don't want that, do you?"

"No," El murmured, stunned. He remained absolutely still, tried not to think about what was being done to him. It was impossible to think he might enjoy such a thing. Being used by the ex-agent was penance, penance wasn't supposed to be pleasant, therefore, he could not, would not, derive pleasure from something he shouldn't have allowed in the first place.

Talking dirty was one of Sands's specialties; tonight he was particularly inventive, and El struggled not to pay attention to the erotic ramblings of the man on his back. Neither the crude sex talk nor the insistant rhythm of Sands's body upon his was going to make any difference, he swore, only to realize, with shame as hot as his desire, that part of his mind was taking notes, planning how he would do Sands the next time the American was in the mood for siesta sex. He groaned.

"What's the matter, El?" crooned Sands. "Do you want me to stop?"

The question was a trap; there was no right answer. "No" would condemn him, while "yes" would be a lie. "I hate you," he said instead.

"Like I've never heard that before," Sands said wryly. "Don't worry, I'm still going strong. We'll get you there yet."

Perhaps he could make the American lose control of himself, make him climax? El concentrated on trying to make the other man go wild, squirming on the inescapable erection that tormented him.

"Hey, wait a minute! What are you doing? Are you trying to - damn, El, yeah - that's it!"

By the time he realized he'd been tricked, it was too late. His body surrendered to its sinful ordeal, writhing beneath Sands, lashings of fiery bliss blazing outward from those forbidden depths. He was sharply aware of the hard flesh impaling him, pleasuring him...Sands gave a little moan, renewing his efforts, his tempo increasing, still sheathed deep, but now with a hint of thrust to his hips.

Overcome by his lust, the mariachi arched his back, offering himself to Sands without hesitation. There was only sweet delirium as Sands churned within him, stirring his passion with each stroke. His orgasm came crashing over him like a mighty wave, and the whimpers of his soul were lost in the roar of pleasure that burst from his throat as he achieved release. Borne on the crest of rapture, he was aware of Sands spurting his seed with a groan.

It was done. He was damned. The overwhelming bliss swept El through the gates of the inferno, forever dooming him.

Afterward, Sands held him, for once not talking, just curled up against his back, no longer trying to strangle him, only holding him as if aware of the agony the other man was in. Oh, not physical agony - Sands was diabolically efficient in his seduction - but the anguish in his heart for having given in to such sinful desires...

Never before had the mariachi experienced such self-loathing. He, who had always been a man of strength and of character, to fall before the manipulations of one such as Sands? To revel in unnatural practices as if he was less than a man? He could hardly face his own reflection to shave, but managed to carry on with his routine as before, not wanting to give the villagers cause to ask questions. He might die of the shame of it, but he would present himself with dignity to the end.

Over the course of the next few days, Sands stayed closer to the mariachi than he had in some time. When he had first begun to emerge from the worst of the chemical insanity that had brought him here, he'd followed El around like a stray puppy. Now, clearly as much in his right mind as he ever got, he again kept El in sight at all times. He wasn't obvious about it; the guitar makers probably didn't notice, but El did.

There was no sign of possessiveness in Sands's attentions. He made no further sexual demands on El at all, which he told himself was a relief.

At the end of the work day, several days after El had been conquered (or so he thought of it: defeated, brought down, condemned), he looked around the plaza for Sands and could not find him. Had the American finally decided to leave him alone?

"I saw your friend go into the church," volunteered Luis as he packed up his tools.

The church? Sands was capable of saying anything to Father Santiago - El bolted for the sanctuary in panic.

The two men were in conversation among the pews. The American had his back to the door and didn't turn around as El walked in. El was reminded of his own confessions, - not that he ever sat with his back to the door - but Sands surely wasn't disclosing his sins. The man didn't even recognize the concept.

Father Santiago looked up at him. "We were just discussing the warrior saints," he greeted El as though it was nothing strange to be sitting and talking to the devil himself. "Yes," he said to Sands, "San Miguel is the highest of these saints. There is also San Martin, who was a soldier. He once divided his cloak and gave it to a beggar, and it was revealed to him that the unfortunate was our Lord in disguise."

The American nodded. "I can see him doing something like that," he agreed, gesturing toward El, still without having turned around to acknowledge him. "Giving somebody half of that ratty old jacket of his."

The priest smiled. El moved forward, taking a seat in the pew directly behind Sands. If I broke his neck, the mariachi thought, I could confess it at once. But what would the point of that be? El had done unforgivable things; he could not place all the blame on Sands for having driven him to it. He was a man, and must take responsibility for his own actions.

"I suppose you know him pretty well," the American continued, facing the priest. "He's probably confessed all kinds of wild shit over the years, huh?"

"I can't discuss such things with you," protested Father Santiago.

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying, you've heard about a lot of the stuff he's done." El's heart was beating rapidly, and the thought of choking the life out of Sands was rapidly becoming an appealing prospect, although doing so in front of Father Santiago was something he would prefer to avoid. "Let me tell you something, Padre. I don't care what he's told you - next to me, he's a goddamn choirboy. Okay?"

Father Santiago shrugged. "If you say so."

Sands leaned forward, resting his forearms against the back of the pew in front of him. "I'd like to tell you about the first man I ever killed."

The priest said cautiously, "You mean to confess this thing? Confession is a private matter." His eyes met El's.

An airy wave from the American. "I'm not Catholic. I don't play by your rules. Hell, I don't play by anybody's rules but my own."

"Go ahead," Father Santiago told him. "I'm listening."

"Back when I was in school, I used to be a wrestler. I got a scholarship to college because I was good at it. It wasn't one of the big-name schools, but that worked for me, because I helped win matches, so I was hot stuff on campus." Sands sounded smug. "Then, in my senior year, this new kid, Jason, joined the team. He had a little talent, but what he really had was a secret. See, this was a conservative school in a small town, so Jason didn't want it to get out that he was gay. He tried like hell not to show it, but he had a thing for me...kept following me around, starting conversations about nothing much, brushing up against me...he didn't come out and say anything, he was trying to play it cool, but he was a little too obvious."

As he talked, Sand's voice lost its smooth edge. It became distant, lost in memory. "At first, yeah, it was kind of nice, being somebody's hero. After a couple months though, I got tired of it. I decided to it was time give Jason what he was asking for. I made a date with him to meet me alone, a place where we wouldn't be disturbed. And when he showed up, all baby-faced and smiling, I took him down, and I used him, and I left him lying there, naked and bleeding and shaking like a leaf.

"Two weeks later, the little bastard hanged himself. He didn't leave a note or anything, but I knew why he did it. That was almost twenty years ago, and I've killed plenty of people in cold blood since then, but he was the first."

The expression on Father Santiago's face didn't change. "And do you feel regret about this?" he asked Sands mildly.

"Regret? Look, he folded. I made him look at something about himself that he didn't want to face, and he couldn't handle it. I didn't put that rope around his neck."

"You said yourself that you killed him. Obviously, you are aware that the responsibility for his death is yours, and it troubles you."

El, familiar with the priest's ability to ferret out the subtle secrets of conscience, was fascinated to see him use the technique on Sands, who, El would swear, had no conscience.

"What troubles me, Father, is the possibility of history repeating itself."

"And why would that happen?" the priest asked the ex-agent.

"Because I still have a talent for making people see things they don't want to see."

The mariachi froze as Father Santiago's gaze met his for a moment, then returned to the man in the pew in front of him. It was all going to come out now, and he wasn't sure whether shame or relief was stronger.

The priest looked thoughtful. "It seems to me," he said at last, "that you have committed a sin of pride. You claim that you excelled at your sport, that you were a big man on campus, as they say. And yet, did you pit yourself against someone who was your equal? No, you chose someone you could best without effort, someone who was much weaker than yourself in all respects. A lion can easily bring down a sheep. He cannot bring down another lion so easily."

It was almost funny, Sands trying to solve the riddle that Father Santiago was constructing...El knew how frustrating that could be sometimes. You thought you knew what the priest was getting at, and then he would turn the problem inside out and show you something you weren't expecting.

"I have heard a great deal about you, Señor Sands," said the priest. "Enough to know that you are a man who has overcome many difficulties in recent months. This tells me that you are indeed an individual with a great deal of inner strength." That betrayed no confidence, for El had asked the priest's advice about caring for the sick man outside the ritual of confession. "When a man is strong, there are two paths he can choose to walk. If he is not confident about his strength, he will take the path of the bully, and prey upon those who are weaker than he is, those who remind him of what he secretly fears being. But if a man is strong and unafraid, he will became a protector of the weak, and use his strength to make the world a better place."

Sands recognized the insult; his head came up sharply and El tensed, wondering if he was going to have to restrain the man. "Of course," the priest continued, serenely, God's lamb strolling past the lion that was Sands, "a man can change. A bully may overcome his need to punish others for his own flaws, and even a good man can fall from grace sometimes and inflict harm upon others. God has given us the free will to determine what will become of each of us."

The little church was silent for a moment. The setting sun sent pools of colored light from the windows spilling across the walls. El examined Father Santiago's words for hidden meaning. "What are you saying?" Sands asked, plainly tired of trying to unravel the skein of priestly logic.

"What you have told me is part of the natural order of things. Two rams will butt heads, two lions will fight, two strong men will test one another. This is nothing new."

"I don't think you understand," Sands said, his voice harsh. "I'm not talking about Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. Doesn't your church consider homosexuality one of the worst sins imaginable?" El's eyes widened. His guts clenched and he did not quite suppress the groan that found its way out of his mouth.

Father Santiago showed no distress at the question. "Let me ask you, Señor Sands - have you ever been intimate with a woman?"

"Dozens," Sands spat.

"And have you also been intimate with dozens of men?"

"No!" The American sounded insulted by the question.

"Then clearly, you are not homosexual. You have demonstrated where your preference lies. If you were to prefer men exclusively and deny the possibility of ever being intimate with a woman, that would be far more serious, but it seems to me that you are merely testing your strength again." The priest smiled at Sands, but El knew it was meant for him as well. "This time, I suspect you and your opponent are more equally matched."

Sands leaned back against the pew, quiet, nodding to himself. His own conscience much lighter, El said, "I'm sorry, we're keeping you from your supper, Father. Sands, let's go home so the poor man can leave."

"Depart in peace," the priest said as El and Sands rose, and they did.

Peace lasted all of a dozen steps within the mission, then El spun and pressed Sands up against a wall with a forearm to his throat...a very handy trick, he had to admit. "You!"

Sands grinned, skillfully hooking El's legs out from under him. The mariachi tumbled to the floor. "Nice foreplay," Sands complimented him. "Or should I say, 'floorplay'? But there's a better way." The American pulled a shiny 50-peso piece from his pocket. "Call it!"

"Heads!" El spoke automatically as the coin whirled in the air and landed with a brassy twinkle on the tiles beside him. It spun briefly, then came to rest, heads up.

"Okay, do you want to pitch or catch tonight?"

Although not familiar with the expression, El understood the question. He retrieved the coin as he stood, dusting off his trousers. He flipped and caught the coin, slapped it down on the back of his hand and peered at it. "It appears I will be pitching," he replied.

"My lucky night," Sands smirked, not appearing too concerned at the prospect.

"Don't be so sure," the mariachi said darkly.

The American extended his hand, but El put the 50 pesos into his own pocket, daring the other man to protest. It was, in the scheme of things, a fairly minor sin.

FINITO.

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For some reason, although it gets more hits than my mainstream fics, my slash gets less feedback. I therefore dedicate this story to anyone who has enough balls to leave a **signed** review. 


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